Why Did the Villain Survive?
by Holly go lightly1
Summary: Seeing the ruined adults he grew up with, the dead and the insane, Severus spends a day sorting out why he, the one with no prospects, survived and why he began to binge eat again. It's really sort of funny.....
1. Welcome Home, Bastard

When one reaches a certain age, he becomes overly confident of what he requires to survive, not merely physically, but psychologically. I found my requirement a the mere age of ten, upon discovering to my greatest delight how delicious simple routine was: the simple steps of waking, a certain way to eat a certain food, a conviction of daily schedule, and knowing that upon sleeping, one must toss at least once on each side before he may sleep. But there is one routine that I must complete in my adulthood so I may continue with the rest of my year, a phase of the moon almost, so life may continue for not merely myself, but the others who depend upon me in coexistence. The phase of my life takes up the expanse of one day spent in a hospital on the day before Christmas, though it is one of only three days I receive to spend at my leisure for the holidays.

I was in the nauseating throws of the beginning of just another one of those days and it began, as customarily as ever, in a lobby. I loathe the lobby, full of the wretched ill (though even I know they cannot help their rickety wheezes and spontaneous bubbling hiccup fits or despondently rambunctious children who crave returning home to the promise of Christmas Eve tidings). My self-inflicted grief at the noise is only ameliorated by a gilt box large enough to be a pet casket with two pounds worth of chocolates in its belly. Certainly the other parcels at my feet brought me no comfort even glancing at the comfort that rivaled even routine for me: "sorrow eating."

Yes, though one would never behold my chassis and reach this conclusion, I am an undeviating "sorrow eater"; one finds a habit instilled from a rocky childhood is tremendous to break. I remember vividly being two and having my father knock me to one side in passing me in the hall; he had overtly been walking behind my teetering but progressive baby step and must have considered himself to be in an utter rush. Traumatized by the pain in my ear from being cast into the wall, I embarked upon a strident wail when my mother, hastily tottering after my father from the kitchen in hopes to catch him before her fears were realized (her fears that he would storm out and never return), presented me with a batter for a cake she had been baking, a whole bowl, sixteen servings worth of pound cake, muttering in her stringent Polish garble, "Here, now shush." I remember nursing my ear back to health with that batter until my mother returned an hour later pleased, knowing that my father would return. Seeing me licking the bowl clean, she felt it the least of her worries and floated back to the kitchen to start again.

Now, I was doing it again, eating a two-pound box of chocolates I had received as a Christmas present from work, specifying that "Severus and his family" enjoy them. Well, what the hell did they know about me? I was here doing their dirty work and I really was the only one of them with a family, I justified, savoring a hazelnut caramel in white chocolate, though I did not necessarily like white chocolate at all. I began to board the guilt train, prepared to fully hold the faculty responsible for making me want to binge eat for the first time since the year before I was married. But then a few memories came back to me, half-conscious memories of me grading papers with an entire pie at my left wrist, merely because I was bored and wanted to be home for my son's sixteenth birthday and not three thousand miles away deciphering ink stains from the alphabet. Then I remember me doing the same action various amounts of times for various reasons of basically the same caliber.

Drat. So, it was my fault after all. I had begun to do this again. Well, it did not harm me physically, I reasoned internally. I still had a scrawny, skeletal body of a sixteen year-old starving soldier as a forty year-old adult. It was really just an expensive habit, after all, but not truly if you work in a school with a free kitchen. Maybe it would be better if I confronted my problems instead of pushing them aside.

Oh, who have I been _listening_ too? I rolled my eyes at my own indiscretion. I am just fine, thank you very much. 

"Severus? He'll see you now," a darkly enthusiastic young woman named Courtney with flaxen fuzz for hair greeted over-exuberantly.

"Thank you," was all I articulated, gathering up a large carpet bag full of parcels at my feet like a half-hearted Father Christmas. Courtney tittered when she saw my feminine mauve carpet bag. "And what are you laughing at my dead mother's bag for?" I demanded irritably.

Courtney caught her breath. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know!"

"She died this time last year," I added bitterly.

"I am so, so, SO sorry," she flushed. "This way, please." 

Imbecile, I thought deliciously as I followed her. My mother was, unfortunately, very alive and this was not even her carpet bag. It was mine, and it was mine because it had been cheap and had not fallen apart in ten years.

So began another twelve-hour Odyssey, through which any outsider might know my life in its entirety.


	2. The Final Resting Place of Gildylocks

*oops, sorry, based on works by J. K. Rowling. ha, bet you were waiting for me to screw up on that one, huh? im not going to prison, im not good with sharing anything like cells or soap.

Upon entering the first room of my first host, I was dramatically reminded of how much of a business call this was. I was greeted by a sticky coconut aroma, likened to the perfume of a young girl. It was the smog of the factory that was this room, though it produced only luridly chirpy coloring sheets adorning the walls, glossy photographs of fundamentally one subject, and the high-pitched squeal of a man not quite in his mind any longer.

A man who I had difficulty in considering a past, present, or future contemporary shuffled forth in slippers that had obviously been a recent gift (still bearing the price tags) and chirruped, "Why, hello! Have we met before?"

"Yes, Gilderoy," I replied in a saccharine voice I had not used in years, particularly since my children ceased to need coaxing into performing perfunctory duties any longer. "I was here last year and the year before for Christmas." Suddenly ashamed of my condescension, I returned to a slightly warmed shade of my natural tone, the sort of voice I use when addressing the parents of my children's friends. "I have brought you a present from some more of your old friends. Where may I put it?"

The flaxen-haired Scandinavian in the cream silk robe did a bit of a ballet pose before informing me, delightfully, "I will have it now...please," he finished, remembering his manners. "Would you like some tea?" he squeaked prettily.

I was aghast to discover that what this poor deadbrain meant by tea was the imaginary contents of a floral cream pitches someone had let him play tea party with. I beheld the man-sized white stools with a child's tea spread of mismatched cups and saucers and false flowers with sickened dismay. Dear God. Not even this narcissistic thief deserved such a blow. It occurred to me that one day, in my elder years, I too may reluctantly realize this fate and be no more than a grim and almost comical memory of sedateness and composure to my children. Suddenly, I wanted to consume the rest of the chocolate hid clandestinely in my carpet bag in a single petrified swallow, but thought better of it and let my fingers stray away from the clasp.

"Certainly, Gilderoy." I handed him two well-sized parcels and took the proffered stool he offered me while he ripped through the wrapping with a toddler's glee. With a calmness I barely recognized, I lifted the card he discarded on the floor that had been attached to the twin packages. "Would you like to hear what your friends have to say?"

"Oh, sure," he said absently, ripping paper at a frenzied pace.

I smothered a sigh. This was no longer a business call that I had been anchored with; it was also another gray hair near my temple, a wrinkle at the side of my mouth, and another soul to haunt my insomnia thinking about. Without ever meaning to or wanting to, I often find concerning myself with the business of those who enter my life. It comes with fatherhood, one supposes, and the constant preaching of "Love your neighbor".

I used to be a cold bastard. Life is so blithe when you are selfish.

"Dear Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart," I mumbled garrulously while he tore. "You are in our hearts, prayers, and memories. Your eminent return to health provides us with--" I set the card down. He was not listening anyway. I crossed my legs, balanced my elbow on the higher knee, and propped up my chin with my fist. "Would you like some help with those, Gilderoy?" Good Lord, it was like watching a kitchen performing the same task with just about the same degree of success.

The first cloaked parcel happened to be a pristinely kept, lilac-colored-and-scented planner I recall from his work a few years back. He stared at it, befuddled. "That was yours," I informed him. "We thought that if you could...read some of your old notes things might seem clearer for you."

Gilderoy gave me such a look that I instantly felt how minimal the success in this action would be for some time. Not only did Gilderoy fail to show any interest, but from the various signatures he had carved on the table at which we sat, his alphabet was still very crude. Reading his own past handwriting would be beyond hope as even I hadn't the damndest idea what he wrote on bulletin boards back when he had been employed. Filius Flitwick and I used to stare at his little memos pasted across our desks and guess what he was trying to say for hours; it had been a fabulous device to avoid ever coming to him when he needed help.

The second gift had been chosen by Gilderoy's still-fervent student body fan club: a hand mirror studded in rhinestone violets, various hair implements and oils, and many other cosmetics he had raved about in old interviews and novels. Included in the care package was a small little plush kitten with moving jade eyes that frightened my horribly. Gilderoy, however, tittered deliciously and put his beauty tray next to an assortment of similar beauty aids atop his dresser (including a few pastel shades of nail varnish) and took to talking to the plush kitten, which was moving by its own enchanted accord across the table, calling it "Blue" then naming it "Chelsea" then naming it "Cassandra" and so forth.

After an hour of the rubbish, including an impromptu fake tea party (which I politely accepted the invitation) and a hair brushing session (which I forcefully declined and was met with no unrest), I was addressed by one of his various personal nurses to please leave because it was time for his schooling. Respecting this woman (a petite but forceful French woman named Francoise who was grounded enough to try to help this man and not pamper him), I left with a final parting "Happy Christmas", an exuberant and clingy embrace, and a pasta necklace in my hand.

I was numb, too numb to be rushing off to my next call, who would not be expecting me for another twenty minutes anyhow. That was plenty of time to consume at least one layer of my chocolate box; I was already making steady progress anyhow and I am fond of projects.

However, something even more unsettling met my view, just as my fingers were itching for the clasp on my carpet bag once more.


End file.
